


Piece of Cake

by aqhrodites



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Cute Ending, Dad Logan, Elementary School Teacher Kayla Silverfox, F/M, Parent-Teacher Relationship, Parent/Teacher Relationship, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Single Parent Logan, Tumblr Prompt, i'm ignoring the origins movie for obvious reasons, not exactly canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 05:52:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: While Logan was looking away, his kid went up to Kayla and said "My dad thinks you're cute," and he was really hoping he could tell Kayla that himself but...whoops!





	Piece of Cake

**Author's Note:**

> **I don't speak Spanish fluently, so if the translation is wrong, feel free to correct me**

****Laura is a quiet child—

Until she’s not.

This can be observed in her silent tantrums of a quick huff and stomping feet. Of her rolling eyes. Of her wrinkled nose and low-slopping brows and her snarled words. Words that are a mixture of tongues. Words that are yelled, screamed. Words that are secret.

Words that should have been _kept secret_.

Words that she really shouldn’t say sometimes.

* * *

 

It happens at Lucky’s Grocery Market.

There’s a sale on muscadine grapes, and seasonal heirloom tomatoes, and Granny Smith apples. The air is fragranced by Italian parsley and cilantro and Romaine lettuce, mangos, peaches, and there’s a barrel full of salted, shelled pistachio nuts near the cheese and dairy, and Logan is swallowing down a sample of cold, top cut roast beef. At the height of his elbow, Laura stares at a slab of large, uncut pork shoulder, holding an empty shopping basket by the wire handles. An aisle over, a small white chalkboard advertises fifteen percent off white bread and brie. Above the deli, a larger board tells of their “buy one, get one half off” for their lunch meals. Logan orders four pounds of the sliced roast beef. The deli worker prepares it, packages each pound in a separate clear plastic zip-lock bag, and slaps on a barcode sticker. Logan asks Laura of any requests while they are here. Then catching her intense focus on the pork shoulder, he asks for an addition two pounds of it.

She’s appreciative with a silent thanks.

Logan’s face is gruff, dropping the packaged roast beef in his basket, and the pork shoulder in the child’s.

The deli worker rubs his hands together, relieved that he didn't accidentally cut his fingers on the meat slicer.

Whenever the two enter the grocery store, each gets a shopping basket to carry. Logan’s is primarily for things they need; alternately, Laura’s is filled with things she _wants_. The rule is: whatever you can carry in your basket is what you get—of course this applies more to the child. So far, Laura’s basket contains a six packet of Juicy Juice cartons, a bag of green grapes, half a pound of pistachios, her pork shoulder, and three full-sized packs of Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies.

Logan judges, a thick eyebrow rising as they leave the deli, walking side by side. “ _Three_ packs of cookies? …You know we don’t even have any milk?”

She’s silent.

“We came here for milk. What are you going to do for cereal?”

Still, she does not answer.

Sighing, he reaches for the items in her basket. “No. This isn’t food. You’re going to put these back—”

She yanks her green wire basket away, and gives a challenging glare.

“Laura…” He isn’t phased in the slightest. “Then what are you going to do? Eat cookies every day for breakfast?”

Her glare speaks a clear, stern _“no”_ and _“don’t you dare.”_

“Come on, kid.” He makes another grab for her basket.

“ _No_ ,” she speaks, this time stepping back, becoming physically defensive. A passing market worker has started observing silently, reshelving merchandise, as well as an older woman in a frilly, sun yellow church dress.

“Ok. Well. If you get these, you’ll have to take twice as much oil and extra helpings of your vegetables.” The oil in question is Omega-3 fish oil she takes once a week on mandatory.

Upon this, Laura sobers, calms, and silently admits defeat, offering over her green basket. Logan takes two of the three packs of cookies and leaves them on a random shelf—one that is lined with brands of pressed juice. “ _One_ : you don’t need three. Especially after what I heard about your behavior in class.”

She huffs.

The behavior in question is what followed a message that had been left in his voicemail that Laura had received top marks in the recent standardized exams, and was one of the few handful of students invited to be inducted into a Honors academic society. Later that same day, a second message had been left telling that Laura was sitting outside the principal’s office after getting in a fight with three older students. One received a busted lip Another a bruised eye.

“Two: I’m tired and I don’t have the energy to stay up with you all night from all the sugar. I’m not going to chastise you right now, but know that some punishment will be coming, later.”

The eleven year old newly acquainted daughter, Laura Kinney-Howlett has inherited more than her father’s quick temper and impulsive nature—muttering under her breath, she backtalks in Spanish.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.” Logan points at his own ears. They approach the aisle that holds boxed oatmeal.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I said it was not _my_ fault.”

“Yeah. Like all the other times? Right.” He then waves in the direction of the food aisles further down. He tells her to go pick out three servings of vegetables to eat, and that he will find her once he gets the last few items. “And _no more sugar_ ,” his finger waves. He shakes his head as he departs, turning in the direction of the refrigerated drinks and beer.

Laura is picking at a remains of food between her teeth, her eyes narrowing to a heated glare burning into the back of his jacket.

“ _Culo_ ,” she says under her breath to no one in particular.

“I heard that,” Logan calls, grabbing a bag of boiled shelled peanuts as he’s scowling and rounding the corner, then disappearing.

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have done this—he probably shouldn’t have left his eleven year old daughter to finish shopping alone on this particular day. Maybe, he should have kept her under his arm just this once—she’s supposed to be reprimanded, right? Maybe, he should have. Maybe—but he didn’t think of the possibilities that she would, _could possibly_ run into one of her school’s teachers. The one who teaches second grade and who noticed Laura’s potential; the one who’s voice played from the other end of the praising voice message about his daughter’s academics. Who, ironically, is one of the instructors in the school’s Honors program’ who has sat with Laura outside the principal’s office. Who is patient, calm, and understanding, a beloved figure to numerous children. Who is the one Laura had been eager to introduce her father to during that first Parent-Teacher Orientation meeting because the woman is one the young girl favored—and that is saying a lot. She is the woman with diamond studs in her ears and pearlescent smile. Her height a few inches beneath the wrinkles between his eyebrows, of light red-skinned and sleek, ash brown hair that swoops over high cheekbones and thick lashes. Sprits light, airy perfume inside her wrists that reminds him of flower and lavender. Whose posture is perfect, easy and relaxed; whose demeanor is assured and appeasing. Who giggles at whatever idiotic joke the square-faced lumberjack has just made. And who he undoubtedly, understandably, no longer has a chance with.

So, under the hooded lights of the small market, while in the canned vegetables and dried fruits aisle, Laura runs into the aforementioned woman.

It isn’t on purpose. In fact she calls out to the girl with surprised eyes and a soft, greeting smile.

“Laura? Hi, sweetie! How are you?” And she’s answered by a tiny, high-pitched _“hello Ms. Silverfox.”_ The woman gives a quick glance above the child’s head, down to the end of aisle. “You’re not here by yourself, are you, hun?”

The girl shakes her head, tells that she’s with her father.

And Ms. Silverfox purses her lips, rubbing her peach-pink lipstick. Nods.

She’s met Laura’s father a handful of times—mainly before or after conference meetings regarding the girl’s progress in academics or behavior. She knows few things about The Bumming Mr. Howlett, as he’s dubbed by a parent in after-school—who has the lingering of cigar smoke and wood dust in his clothes, arms taunt and scarred from working in the lumber business. Silverfox has noticed the few times he’s attended. In fact, he doesn’t show up to many of the parents nights—whether due to work schedule or sheer uninterested, it’s never spoken. He doesn’t participate much, and is only periodically seen. He leaves his daughter in after school quite often.

The first time she met him in the guidance office. They seem to meet during that time or during pick-up, watching his daughter become frustrated during a tournament of kick-ball.

“And he makes you pick out your own vegetables, does he?” Ms. Silverfox asks.

Laura answers with a scrunched nose and a subtle disgust. “Unfortunately. _Sí_.” Her dark eyes scan the cans of green beans, squash, corn, carrots, succotash, lingering on the sections of spinach. She considers her options—the fish oil or vegetables—and weighs which is the lesser of the two evils.

“Well, that’s good. Vegetables are the critical essentials of living long and healthy.” She pauses. Hesitates. “Your father. He’s…been working alot, huh?”

“All the time.” The child stands on tip toes to reach for the large can of spinach on a shelf just out of reach.

The teacher offers to help, and effortlessly plucks the oversized can of spinach that the girl casually drops in her basket. It obviously weighs on her small arms, but Laura asks for two more.

Out of sight, Ms. Silverfox’s head tilts, amused.

As she grabs two more cans for the child, Silverfox brings up, “do you think you’ll be making the induction? I left a message on your father’s voice mail…”

Laura shrugs. “Depends.” The second can is dropped in her basket. Her arm lowers from he weight.

“On what?” The teacher’s eyes flicker past the girl as someone begins down the aisleway, and she tries not to allow her speculations show through.

Though, Laura continues as if the other hadn’t spoken. “On whether he can find something to wear.” She sees that the brunette is confused so Laura looks to the lights overhead. She considers her options, considers the possible outcomes, considers that she’s _already_ in trouble. She inhales dramatically. She considers,  _what else could probably happen_? “He says that he thinks you’re cute.”

And the woman blinks back, astonished. She doesn’t exactly know how to respond.

Laura turns the large can in her hands, searches for the expiration date, eyes run over the nutritional facts chart without reading. “Well not exactly _say_ it aloud, because he has a big head. But he has said it under his breath before. And how he didn’t come last time because he couldn’t make up his mind on what to wear, got mad at me, and I missed the last meeting. When it was about that award and you were there.” Laura’s shoulder raises innocently, as if this all was no big deal.

The woman, on the other hand, feels her face heat up under the white store lights, and her vision tunneling, zeroing in on the child. “Is…is that so?”

There’s a pair of pink sunglasses pushed up on top of the child’s head. As she nods in response, her sunglasses begin sliding down to her forehead.

Ms. Silverfox stands rigid and transforming red, feeling a little _too_ exposed in her denim dress under in the open air of the grocery tore.

A flicker of movement past Laura draws her attention. The child watches as the teacher’s eyes widen, startled, hand tightening around the handle of her shopping cart, and her chest rise, rise. It’s several seconds before she exhales.

Unbeknownst, Laura spins around, unbeknownst that the man in question had begun down the aisle at the moment she revealed his—albeit poorly guarded—secret.

Several feet behind her, obviously coming for his daughter, Logan’s stolid, stern face flickers as glimmers of emotion—worry? Panic? Anger?—ripple across his face before it hardens again. Closes up. He visibly braces himself. Stalks forward. His hand comes down heavy and warning on his daughter’s shoulder.

Laura gives a small jolt.

And he doesn’t entirely know what he is expecting Silverfox to do—roll her eyes, give a smug, juvenile, _knowing_ smirk; to be catty, rancorous, mocking—he doesn’t know how he is expecting her to react, and thus an apology and excuse to retrieve his child, “her big mouth,” and to hurry out is tumbling from his mouth before he fully thinks. But the way she tilts her head to the side, considering, thinking, observing, and levels him with a sly, gratingly _knowing_ look in her eyes—

“Mr. Howlett. Hi.” She speaks slow. She isn’t smiling anymore. Outstretching a hand almost sheepishly, they shake hands twice. “Laura and I were just talking—the, uh, message I left a couple hours ago, it was—”

“About the honors society. Yeah. I got it,” he asks, voice gruff.

“The induction. Laura was one of the very few picked to be accepted. I—we really hope that you can make it.” She tries to not breaks eye contact. In the space separating them, Laura looks from the teacher to Logan, eyes hopeful. Logan nods in understanding, and Silverfox adds for extra measure, “it would mean _a lot_ if you do.”

“ _Por favor, papá? ¡Dí que sí!_ ”

Logan looks from the small girl, back to the woman who reminds him of stardust. He licks at the invisible remnants of spices left on his lips. Scratches his closed shaven a beard and slides a hand around the shoulders of his daughter as a smile graces his features. “Yup. I’ll be informing my bosses tomorrow. We’ll definitely be there, Ms. Silverfox.”

Laura’s face brightens immediately.

The woman’s smile changes, shrinks, grows genuine. “Call me Kayla.”

Laura looks over her shoulder. Her father’s smile grows to mirror the teacher’s.

“Kayla.” He swallows. Introduces, “Logan.”

The child quirks an eyebrow.

The woman turns, slightly, asking if the two could continue talking, that she had been on her way to purchase this bourbon-marinated salmon and insists the father to try it. And he wants to scowl at first, to deny and rush out.

Logan grins, short and sweet, before trudging beside her through the market.

 

 

 

* * *

 

But the subject at hand, about Laura’s little reveal, comes up again as they are approaching the check-out line.

“Yeah. I, uh, I woulda told you myself, you know. But…she’s got a big mouth. That’s half the reason she gets in trouble.” He ruffles the top of his daughter’s hair roughly.

Kayla chuckles. She knows of the few times that Laura has been sent out of class due to her very vocal, very unswaying, brick wall-esque opinions.

“You’re not so bad yourself, _Mr. Logan_.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

During the following weeks, Logan personally retrieves his daughter from after school rather than her riding the bus.

During those following weeks, he makes a point to run into Ms. Kayla Silverfox, if she is still on the campus grounds.

* * *

 

It’s the night of Laura’s induction into the Honors program. She’s supposed to receive a framed certificate for her outstanding achievements and attendance. Afterwards, there’s complementary hors d'oeuvres and overly sweet lemonade, water, and music.

She’s been sitting on the edge of the living room sofa for nearly thirty minutes past the time they were supposed to leave. Her sea foam green dress is bunched around the skirt. She’s slouched in the cushion, lazily turning the television channels with the remote control.

In front of his bedroom mirror, Logan has been coordinating, changing, and wrinkling the combinations of his three ties and suit. He’s asked for Laura’s opinion—like now, as he steps between her view and the cartoons on screen.

“You _sure_ the red one looks better than…this dark blue one?”

He’s tall. Dark hair cut long and a little messy, and facial hair trimmed. His jaw tightens. He has scabs on his knuckles, and a splotchy black ink stain is on the underside of his red tie—a gift received last year. The bottom of his shirt is tucked into his pants. And he seems incapable of sitting still, like he’s got an endless well of nervous energy, and Laura wonders, idly, why he is more stressed about this than she is.

Rolling her eyes, her head falls back with a loud, animated groan. “Whatever! We’re late anyway! Let’s go!” Her arms cross at the last command. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Two minutes into a conversation after the induction and Laura running off to her friends, the persistent invisible _tugging_ in his gut becomes too annoying to bear.

He follows it.

He follows it with a leap of faith.

The night ends with Laura falling asleep in the passenger seat of his truck, a personal cell phone number scrawled across the folded purple napkin shoved in his pocket, and a lunch date this coming weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> **Kudos don't tell much so _please_ let me know your thoughts! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! _Don't_ forget to comment. **
> 
> ****Or, shoot me a complain and/or critic. Complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.** **


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